The Child

De Chirico had it all wrong. The child is rolling a hoop snake of rainbow, a luminous wheel without spokes. And sunlight passes through her or renders her brilliant as brushed steel reflecting intense light. And not even the portals of immense buildings enclosing modern arenas admit of darkness. In her hair, the sun streams like water over bright stones. And the shadows of old men with walking sticks are ablaze with stars.

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